


Common Ground

by fuckyeahlucifersupernatural



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Ducifer - Freeform, M/M, Samifer - Freeform, Team Fuck Lucifer, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-02
Updated: 2013-12-02
Packaged: 2018-01-03 07:32:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1067751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuckyeahlucifersupernatural/pseuds/fuckyeahlucifersupernatural
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Despite the favorable odds, Lucifer doesn’t share his first kiss on Earth with Sam Winchester.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Common Ground

**Author's Note:**

> **Part 1 out of 2**  
>  This piece is for Team Fuck Lucifer!
> 
> **Disclaimer:** This is fan-run and this writer is not officially affiliated with the CW Network, Kripke Enterprises, Warner Bros., and other official affiliates tied to the TV Show "Supernatural." This user does not claim ownership to the official content of Supernatural and does not seek profit off of the work produced presently. Plagiarism of this current story will not be tolerated and will be reported following AO3's terms of services. The stories, additional characters I create, are mine. This story was not created for profit. Making profit is deemed copyright infringement unless sanctioned by copyright holders (i.e. CW Network, Kripke Enterprises, Warner Bros., etc.). Copyright infringement can range from paying a fine to actual jail time. Please do not claim this story as yours! Please do not sell this story! Please do not reproduce this story! All violators will be reported and dealt with severely! 

**1.**

Despite the favorable odds, Lucifer doesn’t share his first kiss on Earth with Sam Winchester. 

The kiss is stolen by Dean Winchester, fingers digging into the archangel’s jaw and noses uncomfortably shoved against each other. There’s the taste of southern comfort in Dean’s mouth and the lingering aftertaste of the barley that composed of the beers Dean downed not too long ago. It’s certainly lacking in finesse, the kiss sloppy and brash. What the kiss is not lacking in is reason. 

Sam has been out of commission for a while, banned to venture outdoors and given a prescription of chicken noodle soup, sleep and clean bandages. The trials kicked him hard and Dean was in no mood to be lenient with his brother in his recovery. While Heaven is tumbling down, Dean was more than ready to give the sky the bird and put the divine drama on hold for Sam. How Lucifer came into play is another story entirely, but he’s harmless thanks to Metatron forcing every angel to have their wings clipped. The Devil can’t even give a decent right hook and sleeps on his stomach, always seeming tired around the edges. 

Terrifying isn’t exactly the word Dean would use on Lucifer at this moment. More like a lion reduced to a kitten.

Due to Sam’s condition, both Dean and Lucifer have been forced to interact with the other. Lucifer quells the fevers, body still abnormally cold, and Dean’s whipping out all of Sam’s comfort foods. Dean realizes one day how stupidly in sync they are to each other when they’re folding laundry in unison, wordlessly distinguishing whose clothes is whose. Certainly doesn’t like it that Lucifer gets his movie references and poorly formed jokes, something that always has baffled Castiel to no end. They share a laugh over folding socks. Laughing over cult classics such as _Born In East L.A._ and _The Big Lebowski_. Dean swears that Lucifer looks like one of the thugs but the archangel simply shakes his head, not seeing a lick of resemblance. 

The domestic days are usually filled with quoting movies, tending to Sam and cooking for the lot of them. Dean can’t help but smile big when the archangel mumbles over his drink ‘ _The Dude abides._ ’ 

That’s weird. Possibly not good. Is that normal? Actually enjoying Satan’s presence?

The normal response would be to create distance with the archangel, perhaps spend a day reminding himself all the shit Lucifer created for them years ago. Instead Dean’s dragging Lucifer out of the bunker, in dire need of more cash and unwilling to let God’s least favorite all alone with a prophet and his sick brother just yet.

That’s where Dean finds out that Lucifer has a knack at winning. 

No matter how many beers are sloshing in the archangel’s stomach, he has impeccable aim at darts, scary good at pool and probably cheats his ass off in poker. 

Dean’s the one who sells and makes the deals, standing excitedly beside the blond archangel who still has a limited grasp on the importance and value of currency. It doesn’t help that after so many beers in his system that he’ll become hyperaware of himself, a sort of slow panic at his own fingers and veins that he can’t fight off with his own defenses knocked down by intoxication. Dean has to hold his crook of his elbow and bring him back down. It helps sell the case to the bar’s patrons that Dean is dragging some drunk-ass dude around, not an archangel who refuses to lose. By the time they swung out, Dean’s holding tightly to the wad of cash, often holding out the sum to the amused archangel.

“Three hundred and thirty-five dollars! Holy shit!” Dean is cajoling out in the parking lot. Lucifer watches Dean with amusement, trailing after him with his hands shoved in his pockets. His pockets are not deep enough, he realizes morosely. “Three hundred bucks! Wow! This is -- dude, I’ve never made this much in one night. One night alone!” Lucifer can see that Dean is ecstatic, body moving here and there, walking ahead to only return back to the blond archangel. If Dean is pleased with this, surely Sam will also be impressed. 

The blond tilts his head when Dean returns to his side, a hand clapping him on the shoulder, “You did a really good job, man. I mean… I should have been taking you out ages ago to the bars!” 

Lucifer gives a mild snort and tucks his chin in, as if he could ward the cold from outside despite the fact his body was far below Nature’s temperature. “People will talk,” he replies wryly, and Dean gives an unattractive laugh, hand sliding across his back until there is an arm hanging from his shoulders. 

“Well, I’m the pretty one out of us both. So, as long as that is clear,” Dean’s other hand cuts across the air, as if he’s drawing a line, tone jovial and words slurred around the corners. Lucifer doesn’t know how long they’ve spent in the parking lot. Just hovering around the Impala, fighting off the cold but no one commenting on the need for the car to be unlocked. Dean is talking about the amount of money, again, and Lucifer is perplexed at how different time moves when you’re not humming with Grace. 

“You were…so friggen’ awesome. Dude, bullseye. Nonstop. I’m super impressed over here — ” 

Lucifer arches a brow, corner of his mouth curved as he watches Dean. “You did a good job, too, Dean,” the archangel gently reminds, nudging him towards the car. “I learned a lot,” he adds and Dean goes mute, shifting a bit from side-to-side as if he’s not quite sure whether the words were a cruel joke or sincere truth. His weight shifts to the right as does his choice, a smile pulling on his lips and looking…almost…embarrassed, using his spare hand to rub at the back of his head.

“Hey, no chick flick moments, okay?” Dean mumbles and decides to, finally, search for his keys. Lucifer watches with amusement his door being unlocked, both of them sliding into the cool seats of the Impala. But the engine never starts. Lucifer rubs his palms together, a gesture he’s picked from the younger Winchester. Frowning, Lucifer turns his head to state the fact the car is still silent but a pair of lips crush against his. 

It ends a few minutes later, Dean heaving for air and hastily starting the car. They head back to the bunker with oldies crooning out of the radio, none of them having the gall to change the channel or address what just happened between them. 

 

 **2.**

Sam’s recovery leads to late morning starts, the younger Winchester tumbling out of bed around eleven. It leaves the expanse of morning to himself, Dean sitting at the table with a cup of coffee and this morning’s newspaper. Lucifer joins him, mumbling a sleep slurred ‘good morning’ as he goes to make himself a cup of coffee. Dean hates to admit it, but he kind of enjoys spending the quiet mornings with the archangel. He certainly likes it that Lucifer drinks his coffee the way he likes it after showing the archangel how to even tackle the diversity called caffeine.   Now Lucifer’s hooked, Dean creating another coffee junkie in the bunker.   It’s borderline sinful how Lucifer drinks his coffee, blatantly oblivious to the way he’ll lick his lips after each sip to catch any remains of the dark liquid. It’s slow and lazy, pink tongue pushing out of his lips and slide right back in. Lucifer will take the portions of the newspaper Dean finished, pursuing through it with mild interest. And he’s always touching his mouth. Fingers are constantly tapping his lips, rubbing a thumb across his bottom lip to even biting his own fingers whenever he’s lost in thought.   Dean wants to make a snide comment about it -- to just address it, at least -- but he doesn’t have it in him to explain to a confused archangel what his actions are translating to him. So all Dean can do is stare at the archangel over the newspaper.

This is stupid. Really? One kiss — a drunken kiss, so that hardly even counts as _one_ , more like one fourth — and he can’t stop finding things he missed in his prior observations. The way his hair is stupid. It’s always sticking up in the end. That’s _far_ from attractive, right? Or the way laugh lines will form around his eyes when his lips quirk into a smirk. Ugh. Or how it’s impossible for him to sit normally. Legs are always sprawled wide, blatantly lounging on chairs and body molding with ease into what should be uncomfortable positions. It’s… _annoying_. Annoying enough for him to find it difficult to pry his eyes away from his crot —

Lucifer clears his throat, Dean snapping out of his thoughts to find the Devil staring at him with a knowing look. 

“I asked if I could see the sections you’re done with,” Lucifer repeats and Dean nods jerkily, prying random sheets and handing it to Lucifer.   Sometimes they chat about the news articles, snorting and scowling together, their cynicism in humanity syncing together beautifully. It ends with both of them rather smug and it’s too weird for Dean that he’s _agreeing with Satan_. It’s too weird that he’s deciding to reflect upon this now. It’s just all surreal that he’ll go out of his way to make the archangel his cup of coffee, setting it on the table next to him just as the blond comes rolling out of bed. In his opinion, it’s only too far if he starts going coffee creamer shopping with Lucifer.   “Lost in thought?” the archangel teases and Dean scoffs, staring intently at the advertisements on the bottom of the page.

“No,” he replies too quickly and he’s eager to make a jab. A sort of cruel jab to just push some distance between them and being caught blatantly staring. It’s selfish and petty way to protect himself and what exactly he’s protecting himself from continues to elude him. “So,” he struggles, picking at strands of thoughts, “You…know, holidays are coming up.” Lucifer arches a brow, keeping his gaze on the newspaper, scanning the contents of the page he was received. 

“Do angels…even celebrate holidays?” 

Lucifer purses his lips in thought, eyes briefly turning up to examine Dean. He shrugs his shoulders and shakes his head, “No, holidays are rather trivial. We have our designated days of rest, yes, but everyday was meant to be a celebration of our Father’s work. Not one day was meant to go unsung, even if it is not a particularly good one. Humans have their own traditions and holidays on Earth, but it is not shared in Heaven.” 

“So…no Father’s Day?” 

That pulls the archangel from the newspaper, unblinking eyes staring at Dean that briefly reminds Dean there is something very alien inside this human husk. But the detachment instantly fades, Lucifer scratching under his chin with his fingers, head tilting slightly. “Well, I certainly didn’t create that holiday,” the archangel comments and Dean’s attempt to just…burn a few planks in this strange bridge failed, finding himself falling into a fit of laughter.

Lucifer waits till Dean’s laughter dies, a small smirk curled on the left side of his mouth. “Why are you trying to rile me up, Dean?” the archangel inquires and Dean makes an embarrassed sound in denial. Lucifer makes a face that he is unfazed, leaning further into his chair, fingers cupping his warm mug of coffee. “You have to be specific when it comes to using my Father against me… Something, I am sure, you can relate to.” 

Dean’s internally kicking himself because his stupid, hardly hashed out attempt just blew up in his face. He didn’t want to talk about his own dad. He just…wanted to find a reason they can be distant for a bit because what’s going on, now, freaks him out a bit. Lucifer continues and Dean is ready to sink into the depths of the chair and be absent from the physical world. He knows he brought this upon himself and he’s waiting for the conversation to take an ugly turn.  “It’s difficult having a father who has given you a terrible burden you never asked for. You’re stuck feeling conflicted. You feel animosity towards Him but at the same time you can’t stop loving Him -- still wanting to prove to Him that you are very much worthy of His affection,” Lucifer softly confides and it makes sense. Every word of it ringing with a quiet truth that he can’t even muster to pretend to disagree. 

Dean turns his gaze away, picking at the surface of the table. There’s a growing silence that Dean feels obligated to fill, adding curiously, “Even when they’re gone... It’s…they’re still there.”

Lucifer nods, fingers dancing across the rim of his own coffee mug. Dean, too, leans back into his chair, albeit baffled at how reassuring it is to have someone understand and affirm his own view. And that’s where a small voice reminds him that this was Satan. 

“Wow. This is scary,” Dean rushed out, because he thinks this is a conversation that crossed the “shopping for coffee creamers together” line, having escalated rather quickly.

“Hmm?”

“Just...us understanding each other. This. This here, I guess. Us...getting each other,” Dean makes a motion between them after placing his mug on the table, “You know, you being...the Devil and all. So....what is this just...because I’m Michael’s vessel or something? I remind you of Michael? Or we sort of connect because of it?”

Lucifer smiles, briefly pulling his bottom lip into his mouth as if restraining himself from saying a blunt comment on what Dean’s trying to do here. But instead he plays along, head cocking to the left, “Far from it. There are qualities you two share but you two are far from being exactly alike. You are the personification of the older brother who will always go back to save his younger brother whether he is damned or not.” Dean shifts in his chair, feeling himself bristle with pride at that title. Lucifer watches Dean’s chin lift, eyes boring into him as he continues, “Michael would be so lucky to share a fourth of your character. There’s not a day that passes where I don’t wish Michael happened to fall upon that luck.”

Dean’s shoulders tilt back, as if he just lost the air in his lungs. There’s surprise on Dean’s face and the archangel is left deciphering the quick change in and middlemen of many expressions across the hunter’s face. “…..wait,” Dean holds his hand up and scoots out from his chair. He’s on his feet and there’s a level of wariness, caused more in the difference of levels suddenly caused. 

“You always have something to fucking say, don’t you?” Dean his grumbling out and the archangel stiffens in wariness. There are fingers gripping the underside of his jaw, his own hand reaching out to grab Dean’s forearm in warning before lips are pushed against his. There’s no golden barley notes in Dean’s tongue like last time. Just the warmth churn of coffee off his lips. 

Lucifer puts the coffee down, hearing it clink against the tabletop as he relaxes. So strange and universal it is the way humans express attraction. A common language budded into their lips, ever the linguist without the actual usage of words. He lets Dean leads, feels his fingers bruise his skin and teeth click against each other when the Winchester gives an encouraging sound, the vocal notes shared between them. 

Dean pulls away, cheeks with a bit of comfort but his ears a stark red, pulling an easy smirk from the blond.  
“Guess you’re not so bad,” Dean clears his throat, giving a reclaiming sniff before swiping his nose. 

Lucifer licks his lips, still tasting Dean, adding with rumbling noise of content, “Did you decide this before or after the kiss?”

“ _Shut up._ ”

 **3.**  
Sam, usually, wakes up to Dean waving a cup of coffee under his nose and quickly exchanging it for a bowl of oatmeal when he reaches out. Sam frowns throughout the entire exchange, body drenched in sweat from a nightmare he can only vaguely remember and heart pounding in his throat. It only comes to a gentle surprise when he finds chilled fingers resting on his forehead each morning, willing the feverish nightmares away and leaving him feeling…rested. 

  The only difference is that, today, there is no Dean accompanying Lucifer and his fever feels insufferable. The archangel is by himself in the room, brows furrowed and fingers resting on Sam’s temple. Sam closes his eyes, takes a deep breath before commenting in a rush of air, “Dean isn’t here.” He can feel himself sweating through his clothes, sweat seeping into the sheets beneath him. 

  Lucifer makes a noncommittal grunt before sliding his palm onto Sam’s forehead. “He is out doing errands,” he finally addresses, “And your fever is close to breaking…” The Winchester opens his eyes, staring at the archangel who is staring down at him.   

“He seriously…left you alone?” Sam asks incredulously, at least tries through the hoarseness of his voice. Lucifer’s face contorts into a pained expression. As quickly as it came, as quickly did it go, a neutral mask sliding back on his features. Sam can see the shift, mouth parting as if he’s ready to give a heartfelt explanation that he’d never hurt Sam. It’s words Sam isn’t alien to. It’s words that Sam is aware Lucifer holds onto as a creed and he is a glutton for it. Glutton to hear that one of the most powerful creatures on the planet won’t dare to harm him, a sort of remedy for the feelings of worthlessness he mulls over in the dark. 

But Lucifer doesn’t give it. Instead he tilts his head, takes a seat on the corner of his bed and states curiously, “But Sam, on television, one doesn’t confess of the murder till the very last five minutes of the show.” There’s a sort of smug curl in Lucifer’s lips and Sam gives an exasperated sound, fishing for the pillow underneath his head. “I could wait till the top of the hour — oof!” Lucifer’s hand slides off his forehead and the hunter gives a winded sound, feeling the heat of the fever roar brightly. 

“You need to stop hanging out with Dean. Your sense of humor sucks,” Sam complains but his fingers are reaching out for Lucifer’s hand. Lucifer beats him to it, hand returning to quell the heat. It doesn’t stop Sam from curling his fingers around Lucifer’s wrist, fingers feeling so hot against his chilled flesh. Sam’s eyes flutter to a close, taking shallow breaths before swallowing thickly. 

“Water?” Lucifer asks and Sam nods. His hand never leaves his forehead, Sam carefully lifting his head up so the pillow can be propped behind him once more. Sam should be upset, like he is with Dean, whenever he is babied. He doesn’t like it when Dean tries to feed him or give him water. But he doesn’t resist Lucifer’s attempts, not sure whether that’s because he’s providing a profound sense of relief or what. But he drinks the water from the offered water bottle greedily until its pulled away from him. 

Sam doesn’t know when Lucifer’s hand slid down to his cheek or when he gravitated closer toward the archangel on his bed. “So, what, are you and Dean getting along now?” he asks, looking up at the blue-eyed angel who is smiling down at him. 

“I think we found common ground and we both care about you,” comes the gentle response. 

The fever must be spreading because he can feel his neck burn. He spends the day having Lucifer’s fingers chase away the heat from his skin until he falls asleep, fingers still curled around the archangel’s wrist. 

**4.**

Mornings are certainly becoming a routine highlight. In the quietness of the early hours in the bunker, Dean can share a cup of coffee with an archangel and a few lazy kisses. When he’s in the garage working on the Impala, Lucifer is always there with that familiar smirk that evolves into a shit-eating grin when Dean finds his hands wandering over the angel.

He’ll half-heartedly complain about how little work is getting done ever since they took that step forward, all the while rubbing his thumb across the trail of blond hair beneath his navel. It doesn’t help that Lucifer is fond of resting his chin on his shoulder and pressing his mouth against his ear, chilling the heat in his ear while murmuring out an unending list of praises. It makes Dean feel like mush, feeling each compliment and rewarding word make his insides warm.

“You know…this feels a little bit wrong. I’m pretty sure Fate didn’t expect this to happen,” Dean exhales. 

Lucifer’s chuckle is low, always managing to get Dean’s skin breaking out into goosebumps as the sound snags somewhere around his top vertebras, “When have you ever followed destiny’s path, Dean Winchester?”

It’s ten in the morning and he has the archangel pinned to the countertop, hand pushed under his shirt and listening to the archangel give him sweet-nothings. Sometimes it worries him how much Lucifer comprehends him, how he understands all of the wars he’s been waging on himself, how he’s willing to carry the burden of worrying and tending to Sam, and what to say to make his bottled tension unravel from it’s dangerous coil. Here is a being pouring warmth into his ear and capable — while not now — of protecting everything within this bunker with unimaginable ease. While Lucifer’s vessel is attractive, Dean is far more enamored with the protection, understanding and impeccable wit that the archangel provided. 

Dean pushes his hips into Lucifer’s, earning a thick growl that breaks the archangel’s light and murmured words. The hunter’s lips twitch into grin, a lopsided formation in the midst as he repeats the action, Lucifer’s hips eagerly pushing back.

“So that’s how I get you to to shut up,” Dean laughs and the archangel rewards him with an abrasive huff. 

It’s slow pushes and grinds against each other, hands clutching onto each other as their heads are dropped, staring at the work of their hips. The hunter slides a knee between the blond’s legs, feeling the air knocked out of his lungs at how greedily the blond rocked and rubbed himself against the presented limb. Dean can see it through the lose confines of the archangel’s borrowed sweatpants. Can see the pushing outline of his cock when he presses into Dean’s thigh, fabric being pulled and pushed by his motions. There’s pretty little sounds, wet intakes of air and exhales of falsetto groans, soft and lost between clenched teeth. And Lucifer’s murmuring his name when he settles into slow and fluid movements, drawing Dean’s gaze to look up and catch the wicked crook of the archangel’s mouth. 

Dean smothers it with a ravenous kiss, hands fumbling between and fishing for the waistband of the archangel’s sweatpants. Fingers weasel their way under, not finding the fabric of boxers but just lukewarm skin, a feral sound burning between their mouths at this realization. It’s through his sloppy tugging of Lucifer’s sweatpants and wrapping his fingers around the archangel’s cock does he realize that the kitchen may not be the wisest of locations. 

Lucifer answers his concern with a thick sound, hips pushing eagerly into Dean’s hand. 

It doesn’t take much coaxing to get Lucifer to follow him into his room, dreading the idea of Kevin or Sam suddenly walking in on them. Lucifer purrs, as if he could hear the terrifying concern racing through his skull and finding it rather suggestive. 

While Dean’s hands are the one shedding them of clothing and pushing Lucifer into the wall, it’s the archangel who hums with control, slipping and pouring into his own hands like molasses. It’s slow, lazy and rich, not mimicking Dean’s hurried and desperate movements. That control only breaks when Dean’s fingers curl around the base of the blond’s cock, loose grip pumping the archangel until he’s digging his fingers into his shoulder and hips jerking out-of-sync with Dean’s hand.  
Just watching Lucifer shudder and all the smug asides pressed into his lips fade makes the Winchester groan in answer. It’s nearly enough to make him forget of himself. It’s only when Lucifer’s moan twists into a whine, making heat flush across the stretched skin over his pubic bone does pull his hand away. The angel is quick to grumble in dismay but is silenced with Dean’s, sudden, authoritative tone:

“Get on your knees.” 

The archangel stands straight, shoulders shifting and looking prepared to fight those words with his teeth. Dean doesn’t bend, holding Lucifer’s gaze until the blond sinks on his knees. There’s kisses across his thighs, fingers tracing the bend of his knee until it nearly tickles. Dean lets a hand push through Lucifer’s golden locks before grabbing onto a fistful, his spare hand laying against the wall for support. His arm nearly bends when there’s a cold nose pushing into the seams of his thighs, dragging a cool tongue across the line of heat. Dean’s hips push forward eagerly, the archangel splaying his hands across his waist to keep him steady. 

It’s a slow and methodical teasing, sucking on flushed skin that has him panting heavily. It takes him by surprise when Lucifer drags his tongue across the underside, head tilted and fingers sliding to curl around the base. It’s a series of rushed curses, wheezed breaths and trembling of limbs. He’s not too sure how long he’s going to last, struggling to keep himself put together as Lucifer finally lets Dean slip into his mouth. 

With the four walls around him, he doesn’t bother masking the relieving groan issuing from his mouth. Lucifer’s lips are a flared pink and wet with spit, pushing Dean further into his mouth, feeling the tip of his cock run across the roof of his mouth. The ridges makes a muscle on his thigh tremble, hips eagerly rocking forward and finding himself, strangely, given control. Digging his nails into Lucifer’s scalp, he careens into a rushed pace, thrusting into the lukewarm confines of the archangel’s mouth.

There’s muffled moaning joining Dean’s. Faint but there. It takes a few moments to realize that it’s not coming from Lucifer, causing his hips to stutter and remain suddenly still. Lucifer makes noise, Dean’s cock stuffed into the back of throat and remaining put. The hunter can feel the archangel’s tongue push against the underside of his length before swallowing, the sensation causing Dean to lose his train of thought as he came with a breaking groan. 

Dean watches the archangel lick him clean, pink tongue running on across his lips before turning his gaze downward at his own leaking cock. An inquisitive sound is made by the archangel and Dean helps the blond onto his feet. Pressing him back into the wall, he lets the archangel thrust into his fist, both of them becoming more aware of someone else moaning in the background.

**Author's Note:**

> _Love it? Hate it? Tell me in a review!_


End file.
